The Hitman's Possession (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Book 1)

by Tia Lewis

  “Please!” The woman pleaded with me, standing in the middle of the alley.

  I let out a deep sigh. I didn’t have time for this shit. I turned back around, ran to the woman and snatched her by the arm. I led her out the alley and into the moonlight.

  My cock gave a little roar when I got a better glimpse of her. About a thousand dirty thoughts whirled through my head. Her lips were wet with exhaustion. Blonde hair fell into her eyes, sticking to her forehead. Moonlight reflected in her bright blue eyes that were surrounded by black eye makeup, giving her a sultry and vulnerable look.

  She was around five feet four, probably in her late teens with long blond hair down to her chest. She had a model-type-body, and her tits were a perfect size—perky and enough to grab and suck. Her long and shapely legs were exquisite. I wondered what it would be like to grab those calves and hoist them over my shoulders as I fucked her hard. I imagined how it would feel to lick her inner thighs making my way to her pussy as she moaned loudly for me. She wore a fitted red mini-dress that accented her curves and displayed just enough cleavage to tease my senses. She was too sexy to ignore, and her subtle natural beauty made my cock jump.

  So I decided that this woman would be my possession.

  “You’re coming with me.”

  “Where?”

  I ignored her.

  “Tell me where you’re taking me. I called the police!” She yelled, struggling to break free from my tight grip which only amused me.

  “You called the police? Or you will call the police?” I smiled mischievously.

  “I called them already. They're on their way right now!”

  “With what phone?”

  The woman didn’t answer. Instead, she started to cry wiping loose blonde strands away from her face with her broken, red manicured nails.

  “Just tell me where you’re taking me. Don’t take me back to…”

  I growled with annoyance. This sexy piece of ass got on my last nerves. I turned to her, snatched a fistful of her hair and yanked her head to me. I towered over her and was less than an inch from her face as I glared into her watery eyes.

  “You asked for my help so I suggest you shut… the fuck… up. Or I’ll let my pistol do it for you,” I breathed into her ear.

  “Ahh! My hair!”

  “Am I understood?”

  “Okay! Okay!”

  I let go of her hair and adjusted my leather jacket. Trembling, the woman choked back her tears and smoothed down her hair.

  “I’ve earned you and wasted my bullets for you. Don’t be an ungrateful bitch.”

  She nodded, and I continued to drag her by the arm down the street and toward my apartment. The street lamps were low and sent out a dim light. The neighborhood was always alive at this time night. Across the street, an old couple walked, hand in hand, but they didn’t look our way. Down the street a couple of teenagers sat in a car, playing rap music and drumming on the dashboard with their fingers. As we crossed the street, she looked frantically up and down the road, like she was scared a ghost was going to leap out of the shadows.

  “Who’s after you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, glancing around and twisting her neck to look behind her, checking every shadow. She had an uneasy look about her like she was scared an enemy was hiding in every crevice.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I told you!”

  I stopped in my tracks, turned to her and grabbed the back of her neck, yanking her closer to me. I pulled out my pistol from the inside of my jacket and shoved the barrel into her mouth.

  “I’m only going to tell you once. Either you stop with the ungrateful attitude and drawing attention to yourself, or I will pull the fucking trigger,” I breathed in her ear.

  She nodded with wide eyes, lips quivering and I released my grip. I holstered my pistol back inside my jacket, and we continued walking. All of this for a tight piece of ass, I thought.

  “You're giving me a fucking headache,” I spat.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  “You can stop looking behind you, too. If somebody snuck up on me, it’d be the last thing they’d ever do.”

  I saw several men making hand signs as we passed them. I nodded.

  “They're flashing gang signs?” she asked innocently.

  Damn, this bitch was green.

  I ignored her and we continued to walk in silence.

  A soft rain begins to fall, and five minutes later, we arrived outside my apartment building, which wouldn’t have looked out of place in a crime documentary. Graffiti was scrawled beside the door, and black trash bags, stained panties, and a few rats decorated the entryway. Somebody had been sick a couple of days ago, and nobody had thought to clean the vomit that ran down the door. The light above it flickered on and off like something out of a horror movie.

  I opened the building door and led her into the lobby. She cautiously walked in, covered her nose and carefully stepped over the filth.

  “This place is disgusting.” She turned up her nose to me.

  “It’s your new home.” I wickedly smiled.

  The elevator was broken, so I led her up creaky stairs that were covered in dirt of every kind.

  We stopped on the third floor. A pair of needles lay discarded outside one of my neighbor’s doors. The numbers—3A, 3B, 3C, etc. —had all been damaged in some way. I led her to my apartment: 3F, at the end of the hallway.

  “How can you live here?” The woman scanned the hallway, wrapping her arms tight around her body.

  I opened the door and locked it behind us.

  My apartment wasn’t a five-star hotel, that was for sure. My brown couch was old, and the wallpaper had almost entirely flaked away. Cobwebs coated the corners, and a spider scurried across the worn hardwood floor that was stained with patches of beer and blood from some of my previous jobs. The black curtains were thick and drawn, blocking out almost all light from the street. The old lamp in the corner emitted a dull light. Three empty beer cans and a few fitness magazines lay on the coffee table. Everything was cluttered, unorganized and hadn’t been cleaned in months. But it was home, and she’d have to deal with it.

  I was a contract killer and a prisoner of my own state of mind. I knew that I was detached and emotionless. I lived in darkness which matched my personality and could care less about how my apartment looked. Killing, fucking, and stacking money were my only priorities.

  The woman sat down on the living room couch and seemed impervious to all the dirt around her. She nervously scanned the room hugging herself tight.

  “Are you usually so quick to kill people?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Do you normally live like this? It’s so filthy in here.”

  Now this bitch was starting to piss me off. She had just been through Hell, so I decided to be patient.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No.” She stared at me as if she was trying to figure me out. “Are you… depressed?”

  “I don’t look happy enough for your delicate sensibilities?”

  She shrugged.

  “How can there be happiness when you live in a world surrounded by blood and death?”

  She didn’t respond.

  I scratched the back of my head and let out a loud, exaggerated yawn.

  “When hot women like you gets on their knees and suck my cock… That makes me happy.” I smiled.

  She shuddered.

  “When do I get to leave?”

  “You don’t.” I laughed and headed to my bedroom. I had never taken a woman as a prize before. Women were wet holes for my enjoyment at the end of the day. Something to stick my cock into until I was satisfied and then discard when they had pleased me. I’d taken her because she was sexy as fuck and I hadn’t jacked off in weeks, so I needed some type of release. I was surprised to still see her on my couch and in my presence when she easily could have run a long time ago. I’d never met a woman who wasn’t scared of me. I had to g
ive her credit; she had more balls than I thought.

  “Can you leave your bedroom door open?”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  A note of desperation came into her voice. I recognized the sound of despair because I had heard it far too many times to count.

  “Kitchen light,” I said as I shut my door.

  I stripped down to my black boxers and sat on the edge of my bed on top of a thin mattress and even smaller blankets. The wall to my left bore three bullet holes from an exchange with an intruder a couple of months ago. The wall to my right had an oversized poster from The Dark Knight that my partner Samson had given me a while back. Batman’s head had been ripped off in a drunken brawl with my other partner Quick-Toes. The wall also included a picture of me and my brother Kevin when we were kids.

  I gazed at the picture for a few moments and let out a heavy sigh. I then got up from my bed and walked towards the corner of my bedroom. I kneeled down and peeled back the dirty carpet revealing the worn hardwood floor underneath. With the carpet peeled back, I removed the wooden planks which exposed a massive hole that contained a large black case. I grabbed the case and took it back to my bed and sat down. I unclasped the lock and opened it, smiling at my collection of knives, pistols and ammunition.

  I grinned as I lovingly caressed my weapons, especially my Heckler & Koch P30L pistols. They gave me more pleasure than any woman ever could. I then closed and snapped the case and headed back to the corner of my room to put the case back inside the floor.

  I stretched my arms and turned my attention to the nightstand. I plopped myself onto my bed and opened the drawer. I reached into the back and found an old pack of cigarettes, half-empty, but that was enough for now.

  “One more,” I said to myself. I’ve been trying to quit smoking for quite some time. But in my line of work I needed something to relax me. Now that I’ve claimed that sexy blond… she’ll be the perfect substitute for my addiction.

  I removed one cigarette from the pack, placed it between my lips, and lit it. Taking a deep pull, I held it, exhaled, and felt my body begin to relax. I laid in bed, exhausted from a day of boxing with the crew at the Drunk Harpy and completing a few contract hits. That business with the blonde only added to my fatigue. I let out a loud yawn, placed an arm behind my head and listened to the sounds of the city outside my window.

  Hell of a fucking night, I thought.

  2

  I woke early.

  Some people thought because I killed for a living that I didn’t have any work ethic, but I had a serious work ethic. I was dedicated to my boss and took my job very seriously. You didn’t become the best hitman in the neighborhood without doing your fair share of grinding.

  I yawned, pulled back the thin covers on my bed and kicked out my legs. I sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing my eyes and thinking about all the shit I had to do today—a contract hit and fucking that whore in the next room were on the top of my list.

  I got up, stretched my arms and did my exercise routine which included shadow boxing and meditation to keep my mind sharp. After that, I took a shower and changed into clean clothes. When that was done, I walked into the living room, through the kitchen, and grabbed an apple and drank a glass of ice water.

  The woman was asleep on the couch, breathing fitfully and letting out little whimpers. Her red mini-dress had ridden up around her ass, and I could see everything perfectly. I bit down on the apple as I looked down at her sleeping form and admired her for a while, my cock solid from not cumming for the past few weeks. Pussy or ass? I thought. I didn’t know which hole I wanted to use first.

  Then I left, eager to get my job out of the way so I could get back to the apartment and dive into some new pussy.

  The morning streets of South Boston were alive as they have always been. Cars screeching, people yelling, sirens blaring. A homeless man was searching an overflowing trash dumpster, and open vendors selling coffee and bagels. A plump woman walked past me eating a foot-long hot dog in one hand and holding a giant ice cream cone in the other. I saw men in overalls with bleary eyes walking through the sunlit streets, on their way to clock-in wherever it was they earned their living. Prostitutes and strippers in revealing skirts, high heels, and miserable faces walked on unsteady legs to and from their jobs and apartments, some cackling loudly and others looking down at the ground.

  I nodded to people I knew, and they nodded back.

  The jobs were given to me by drop-off.

  I’d get a note with an address and a description: under the bin, back left wheel, red car... I’d go to the address, pick up the folded piece of paper, and there would be the names of the men I had to take care of. I knew Boss wanted them dead for money-related matters, but I never asked what those matters were. It was just business, and I got paid well. That was it.

  The men that I was hired to kill this morning lived ten blocks from my apartment.

  I wore my usual all black attire—T-shirt, jeans, leather jacket, and boots. My face, which usually sported a long and thick beard, was freshly shaven. My jet-black hair was cut short, and my eyes were intensely focused. I was six-four with an athletic physique from years of boxing and fighting. My upper arms were decorated with a skull and tribal tattoos, and my body was covered in faded scars. The scars from countless fights were not very noticeable, apart from the upside-down triangular scar above my left eye, which looked like a brand of some sort.

  I reached the men’s apartment building, which was fancier than mine, but not by much. There was no graffiti, but that was because the walls were freshly painted. It was cheap paint and already flaking. The glass in the door was smashed and covered with cardboard. I pushed my hand through the cardboard and unlocked the door.

  In the hallway, a mother, and her daughter were just leaving. The mother nodded at me, and the little girl beamed. I went on my way. There’s decent folk around here, I thought as I rode the elevator, which screeched as it jolted upward. It’s a shame that a man like me has to ruin it.

  As I approached the apartment door, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my thick black leather gloves, which worked exceptionally well for my “craft.” I reached into my back jeans pocket, extracting the thick plastic wrapping. I unfolded the plastic wrapping which held razor wire and a large syringe containing potassium chloride. I removed the razor wire, wrapped the plastic wrap around the syringe and put it back into my pocket. I unfurled the coil of the razor wire and held it in one hand, and with the other, I pulled out my pistol from the inside of my leather jacket.

  When I was ready, I knocked on the door with the barrel of my gun and stood off to the side of the door. I heard the sound echo inside the apartment, then heard somebody shifting and the noise of paper crunching. I imagined someone walking across a floor covered in newspaper. Maybe someone had spilled something. Then I saw a shadow appear under the door, from where the light was being blocked.

  “Who is it?” The man said.

  I rarely knew their names, but I had descriptions. One was tall, thin, red-haired, had a face full of freckles, and had a high-pitched, reedy voice. The other was a tall, hefty man with severe acne and long, greasy hair. He had a missing pinkie finger on his left hand, and he often wore a Metallica T-shirt. I also knew that they were heroin addicts and their dealer’s name was Steve.

  “Got some stuff from Steve,” I said.

  “Stuff?” The redhead was high. It was evident from the way he answered. There was that eagerness that only addicts had in their voices. Right now, the redhead would’ve opened the door for Satan if that meant more heroin.

  “Yeah, open up, man.”

  A bolt slid with a metallic clang, and a lock turned with a click. The redhead opened the door. I saw that I was right; the man was tall with red hair and freckles. On the couch behind me, a plump man with greasy hair slept, facedown. The apartment was a sea of used needles, pizza boxes, and cigarette butts. The walls were stained with smoke and the kitchen, which was half-v
isible from the doorway, was overflowing with dirty dishes. Mold grew on a baking pan left on the counter.

  “Where’s the stuff, man?”

  The redhead was so high that he failed to see the gun, the black leather gloves, and the razor wire.

  My expression was blank as I stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind me.

  It was time to go to work.

  After a long hot shower, I wrapped a clean white towel around my waist and checked on the woman, still sound asleep on the couch. She must’ve slept through the entire day, I thought. She could’ve just run. Nothing was keeping her here.

  That short ass dress she was wearing exposed her long, smooth legs and firm ass. I took a deep breath and my cock pressed into the towel, almost like it wanted to leap out and fuck her right there. Weeks without cumming will turn a man into an animal. As I admired her ass, she rolled over and faced me with her eyes closed. Her blond hair looked natural, not dyed, and her face was lightly freckled.

  My head was filled with images of her, on her back, on her front and taking my cock. I wondered what it would be like to fuck her deep while fingering her tight asshole or sucking on her juicy tits and watching them turn red. I wondered how it would feel to have her lips around my cock.

  I watched her for a few minutes, and then she woke up. I expected her to scream when she saw me watching her, but she just sat up and yawned.

  “Hey. What time is it?” she asked, glancing around like she had last night like there were phantoms everywhere.

  “Around five.”

  “Five? In the evening?” She gasped. “How did I sleep for so long?”

  “I guess my pristine apartment has that effect on people.”

  September sunlight peeped through a gap in the blackout curtains and shone on her forehead in a thin strip, making her pale skin glow.

  She kept looking around. Maybe she thought Russians were hiding behind the curtains. It was annoying. No sooner would I look at her face than she would turn and search the room. The cobwebs, the beer cans and the general dirtiness of the place didn’t seem to bother her.